


Chemical, Physical, Kryptonite

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 4x1, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, POV Multiple, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, basically a lot of sex and then oops feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: “i meant to text the contact one above you in my phone’s contact list for a booty call but i didn’t realize i hit your name until i sent it so now i’m just sitting here feeling those little three dots hardcore judging me” au</p><p>Or, four times Bellamy and Clarke try to be friends with benefits, and one time they stop kidding themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clarke

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to fill this prompt ever since I came across it on Tumblr months ago, and after I got inspired recently, it turned into this. Title from Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon.
> 
> Chapter 1: Clarke
> 
> Chapter 2: Bellamy

I.  
_You up? I have wine ;)_

Clarke stares at horror at her phone, the bright yellow of her chat bubble almost mocking her. 

Fuck.

The words sound even more cringe-worthy now that they exist in writing. And that winky face… that's going to be her cause of death, she just knows it. Lexa might have ignored it, or at worst thought it was a cute attempt, but Bellamy—Bellamy is going to be downright _insufferable._

This is what happens after too many glasses of wine, alone on an empty stomach with no one to talk her out of questionable decisions at 1 a.m. Except—it’s just gotten so much worse. She can't even talk her way out of it. Of all people, Bellamy knows _exactly_ what this text is, and he's never going to let her live it down.

Maybe he won’t see it right away, Clarke reasons. Maybe he’s out. It’s a Saturday night after all. He’s got better things to do than—

Three little dots appear on her screen, in the answering blue of a chat bubble.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

Five minutes later, Clarke is still clutching her phone, staring at those stupid little dots and wondering what the hell is going on. Bellamy hasn’t sent a single word yet, but she knows he’s seen the message, and that _kills_ her.

Suddenly it rings, her current music obsession blaring through the room and making her drop the phone in surprise.

_Oh don't you dare look back_  
_Just keep your eyes on me_  
_I said you're holding back_  
_She said shut up and dance with me_

She stares at it, frozen, until it cuts off halfway through the _ooohhh-OOHH_.

Then there’s a small chirp, signaling a text. Hesitantly, she checks.

_Pick up._

Before her brow can scrunch, the phone rings again, Bellamy’s face showing up on the screen with that stupid smirking picture she’d taken last winter. That grey coat had already looked unfairly good, but it'd gotten better when she started a snowball fight and finally pulled a smile from him on camera.

She answers before she can change her mind. “Hey.”

“Did you mean it?” 

“I—what?”

“Did you mean it?” He repeats urgently. “That text.”

“I… uh,” Clarke fumbles, wanting to die. “Sort of,” she finally says. “It just—it was a mistake, alright? I meant to send it to Lexa but I sent it to you by accident because I forgot you changed your name in my contacts list.” 

Bellamy is silent. It’s unnerving.

“I mean who fucking calls themselves ‘Lava Lips’ anyways,” she rambles on. “It would have just defaulted to Lexa, she’s the only L name in here, so really if you think about it this is kind of your fault—”

“Clarke.”

She slumps. “Yeah.”

“You really were gonna text your ex for a booty call?”

“It’s not—” she begins, then decides, fuck it. “Well who else would I call? I just—I’m tired and maybe a little tipsy and just… it’s lonely. And my vibrator broke.”

“Jesus, Clarke.” The strangled tone in his low voice makes her shiver for reasons unknown. Then, unexpectedly, he says, “Well, you can always call me, you know.”

“To complain about how lonely and horny I am?” She says dryly. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you want to hear on a Saturday night.”

“No, not that,” he says carefully, sounding odd now. “I mean, yeah, you can vent, but, what I meant was— you know what, forget it. It’s fine.”

Clarke sits up. “Hang on. Were you—are you offering to come over?”

“I mean, if you’d asked me to, I would have. That’s all.” He sounds vaguely embarrassed, which is confusing and endearing all at once. 

“Why?”

“Because, being alone sucks sometimes,” he says simply. “And you don’t need all of Lexa’s bullshit anyways. You got enough of that the first go,” he adds, a bit of anger creeping through. “If it was me—well, I mean, it’s a friend helping out a friend for a night. No weird shit.”

It’s really appealing. Like, embarrassingly so. And that’s in large part due to the fact that Bellamy is the one that’s offering.

Clarke really does _not_ want to analyze that right now.

“That does sound better,” she admits.

“So… are you asking?” 

She blushes even though no one’s around, burying her face into the pillow for a few seconds. Finally she says, “Yeah. I’m asking.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in ten.”

Clarke looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair sits in a messy bun atop her head, half the strands already falling out. She’s in old paint-splattered shorts and a purple tank top—not really dressed to receive. But, in all fairness, they’re probably coming off soon, she reasons. So there’s not much point in changing.

Ten minutes later, Bellamy’s standing in her doorway looking unfairly handsome in a maroon sweater and jeans. She wishes she had changed, then dismisses the thought instantly, because changing would have meant she was looking forward to this—to him.

“So, can I come in? Or did you change your mind already?” Bellamy smirks. “Because I gotta tell you, princess—”

Clarke’s not entirely proud of throwing herself at him, but, well, he needed to shut up anyways, and she really didn’t want either of them to somehow talk their way out of this, because now that he’s here she realizes just how much she wants this to happen.

Bellamy stumbles back with a grunt of surprise, hands automatically flying to her waist. His mouth catches up to his brain a second later, and soon his lips are moving against hers, warm and hungry. Unsurprisingly, he's a great kisser, and it doesn't take long for them to settle into the push and pull of a rhythm that feels oddly comfortable and oddly _them._ Clarke presses closer, her tongue eagerly seeking out his and absently wondering why they haven't done this before.

Bellamy moves them inside, kicking the door shut and at the same time sliding his hands to her ass. She takes the hint and jumps up, sighing when his big hands wrap around her thighs. Twisting her hands into his curls, Clarke kisses him anywhere she can reach while he stumbles to her room. His mouth tastes like cinnamon. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sucks a trail down her neck, pausing to pull her hair loose from its bun and threading his fingers through her curls in a way that briefly makes her wonder if he’s thought about this before. Then his mouth travels to the skin behind her ear, and she stops thinking for several minutes.

”I thought you would have moves,” he teases, nosing at a strap of her top.

“I have moves,” Clarke argues. _I just can’t remember them when your mouth is doing—that._

She gets some measure of vindication when all he does is stare after she strips off her shirt. 

“Bellamy,” she grins. “Any day now.”

He swears under his breath, then splays his hands wide on her back as he leans forward, tugging a nipple into his warm mouth and making her moan at the burst of pleasure that seems to go straight to her cunt. Something like approval rumbles in his throat and he sucks a little harder, teeth scraping against the bud.

“Fuck,” she moans, gripping his shoulders. “Bellamy, _please,_ I’m—”

He lowers her to the mattress, following to hover on his elbows. “What do you need?” 

She’s torn between everything she wants—his hands, his mouth, his cock.

Bellamy tugs off her shorts and underwear all at once, then rests a hand on her closed knees. “This isn’t one and done, you know,” he says, smiling faintly. “I told you I’d stay all night and I’m going to, unless you say otherwise. _So,”_ he leans closer and sucks on her bottom lip, “what do you need, Clarke?”

“Mouth,” she manages. “Please, use your mouth.”

His lips curve against hers and he kisses her again, deep and dirty, before shifting down her body. Her legs part at the gentle pressure of his hands. She already knew she was desperately wet; now Bellamy knows, too.

“Shit,” Bellamy breathes. She thinks he wants to say something else, but then he just licks up her slit. Clarke cries out, a hand fisted in the sheets and the other in his hair as he dips his tongue inside her, holding her hips down sure and steady. She flushes to her toes at the sounds he’s making, and when he catches her watching him, something wicked and triumphant flashes in his eyes. Before she can begin to figure out what that might mean, he’s sucked her clit into his mouth, and she’s calling to him, hips jerking against his face as her orgasm hits with a force that drowns out everything else. 

When she opens her eyes again, Bellamy’s lying beside her, a hand lightly running along her side. “Okay?”

“You know it was better than that.” She gulps more air into her lungs and reaches for him. “Why are you still dressed?” She questions against his mouth.

He huffs out a laugh. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

Clarke pushes him to his back, settling atop the hard bulge in his pants and rocking her hips. He bucks out of instinct, hands clutching at her waist. Smirking, she leans down to kiss him, then proceeds to get him just as naked as her. 

If one night is all she gets, she doesn’t plan to sleep at all.

 

II.  
They don’t talk about it. 

They don’t talk about the fact that he’s had his head between her thighs for more hours than they actually slept. They don’t talk about how her nails left scrapes along his shoulders, on his back. Or that they ordered pizza and watched Broad City on her laptop until she laughed so hard she forgot all about being lonely. Or how they woke up tangled together and each pretended to sleep a little longer just because.

They don’t talk about it at all—but it doesn’t mean Clarke stops thinking about it.

Every time she sees his name pop up on her phone, her heart does a stupid little flip. She starts ordering flavored lattes just trying to find the taste of him again. When he gives her that infuriating smirk in a room full of people, she considers jumping him on the spot. And on the occasions that they are hanging out alone—which are often, since he’s one of her best friends—she continues to argue with him while pretending not to look at his hands or his shoulders or the spot on his waist where she now knows there’s a sizable scar from that emergency gallbladder surgery that nearly gave her a heart attack two years ago.

Then, just when she thinks she’s gotten quite good at pretending—Bellamy gets stood up.

It’s the dumbest thing in the world. Who wouldn’t want him? Clarke wonders. And yet, here he is, lounging next to her on the couch and pretending not to pout while she sits a little too close and twists the cap off her third beer. Or is it fourth? She’s not sure.

Bellamy nudges her knee with his. “Stop drinking all my beer.”

“Fuck you, it’s _my_ beer that I leave here because I hate yours.”

“No it’s not. I bought this beer because I knew you were coming and I drank all of yours already.”

She looks over in surprise. He’s staring at the TV, one arm thrown over his head and his expression inscrutable, but she sees his jaw tighten momentarily and knows it was a slip. That’s the thing about Bellamy—he’s not the grand gesture kind of guy. He’s the one that you might miss if you’re not looking closely enough.

“Emma’s an idiot,” she says.

His eyes dart to hers, lingering, then back to the TV. Clarke sets her beer on the table and shifts so that she’s flush against him on the couch. He’s slumped so far down that his head is near her jaw, so when she turns to the right her lips meet his soft curls. He looks up through his lashes, unsure, and she knows what’s going to happen before it does. Then his hands are in her hair and she’s scrambling onto his lap, mouths meeting with urgency.

“Just for tonight,” she gets out, biting his earlobe.

“Tonight,” he agrees, and stands up with her wrapped around him, making it to his bed in record time. She tugs off his shirt and sets her mouth to his chest immediately, tracing the hard planes of his torso and relishing the harsh breaths leaving his mouth. Bellamy seems to have lost all restraint, just holding her hips so tightly she can feel his fingertips creating imprints. She scrapes her teeth over the jut of his hipbone, grinning up at him when he jerks and curses loudly. 

“Clarke,” he rasps, and oh how she likes that, “get back up here.” 

She does, but not before unbuttoning his jeans so she can sneak her hand in and palm him through his briefs. He moans brokenly into her mouth, fingers flexing on her waistline. When she pulls back again, she removes her shirt and bra, but stays out of his reach. Bellamy watches her scoot back down the bed, raising his hips to let her pull off his pants and briefs. His eyes close when her hand wraps around his thick length.

Grinning, Clarke leans down, letting her breasts brush against his cock ever so briefly before her tongue sneaks out for a taste.

“Jesus, princess,” Bellamy’s groan is loud in the room, fingers winding tightly into her hair. “Give a guy some warning.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Clarke hums and closes her lips around his cock. She’s been dying to do this again ever since she got a chance all those weeks ago. It’s kind of a huge, weird power trip—probably because it’s Bellamy writhing beneath her, for once not in control. 

She feels him stutter and gasp as she takes more of him into her mouth, working the rest with her hand as she bobs up and down. The hand in her hair is a telltale guide to what he likes, and the sound of his uncontrolled pleasure turns her on beyond belief. In no time she feels his other hand grasp her shoulder in warning.

“I’m close,” he says tightly. She knows he expects her to pull off, because he’d all but yanked her off the last time, but right now she has other plans.

So she meets his gaze and sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks, twisting her hand at the base of his cock. Bellamy’s eyes widen even as his hips pump harder, and the hand in her hair tightens until he comes with a groan, her name on his lips. His head falls back to the pillow, chest heaving. When she finally releases him with a wet _pop,_ he pulls her up and crushes their lips together.

“You—shit,” he breathes, kissing her hard. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she says. He flips them over, tugging her pants down and rubbing the heel of his hand over her damp panties as she bucks beneath him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sinking a finger inside. Her muscles clench as she mewls helplessly into his neck. He slides it in and out almost treacherously slow, crooking it every so often and taking in her every reaction like it's the most important secret.

“More, Bell, come on,” she clutches at his shoulders, hips canting up desperately. He complies without a word, adding two more and covering her rising moans with his mouth until she comes. 

Clarke stares up at the ceiling and takes deep breaths while Bellamy shuffles around, returning with a sweatshirt for her after he’s cleaned up. Then, to her surprise, he pulls her close to his chest, an arm solidly curled around her back. 

She grins up at him in surprise. “Cuddle much?” 

“Just shut up and sleep,” he says gruffly.

_Emma is a fucking idiot,_ Clarke thinks right before she drifts off.

 

III.  
Clarke charges into Bellamy’s apartment even before the door’s fully opened, heels clacking on the hardwood floors. 

“Unbelievable,” she fumes, throwing her scarf to the side and sending her coat after it. “After all that nagging and shopping and lecturing, she expects that I’ll just sit there politely and take it? And the whole time she’s pretending like I knew, like it wasn’t a setup—”

“Clarke, hey,” Bellamy takes her shoulders. “Slow down. Start from the beginning. What did Abby do?”

She twists away, needing to move, even if it’s just in a circle. “I went to that stupid banquet. I let mom convince me it would be networking, nothing more.” Raking her hands through her hair, she laughs bitterly. “Her _friend_ brought his son. You can guess where that was going. I mean, I even listened to all her bullshit this week, because I thought she was actually being helpful for once. And yet again, I’m a fucking fool. Just another warm body to be shown off—”

Bellamy steps in front of her pacing, hands framing her face as he pulls her to him. Clarke gasps as his tongue dives past her lips, and all her pent-up frustration transforms into need, pure and simple. 

Somewhere deep down, she knows this is why she gave the cab driver his address instead of her own. She'd wondered if this would be his response. Wondered if he would know that this was the perfect outlet for her anger, fire matching fire, just like he seems to know so many things about her. 

Her hands clutch at his hair, probably tighter than he deserves, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he just presses her up against the wall, meeting the furor of her kisses. When he wedges a knee between her legs, she moans and grinds down, and his laugh is hot against her neck.

Without warning, Bellamy spins her to face the wall, dragging down the zipper of her dress. He drops kisses along her shoulder, down her arms, smiling at the goosebumps he leaves behind. Clarke wiggles her ass against him, rewarded by a low groan, and soon he’s on his knees to tug the dress off entirely, her heels following.

Then, for some reason, he stops.

Clarke looks down blearily to find him staring at her stockings—or, more accurately, the point where they stop halfway up her thighs and clip to her panties.

“Oh.” She turns a furious shade of red. “I—um, all the others have runs in them and mom was yelling at me to hurry, so I just—” She shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “I figured no one would know the difference.”

Bellamy just nods, looking a bit strained. And pretty turned on, if she’s reading him right, which she thinks she is. Biting her lip, she takes a shot in the dark.

“I bought them as a joke. Never ended up wearing them for anyone, though,” she says as casually as possible. 

His eyes snap to hers, and that possessive glint is unmistakeable this time. Slowly, he traces each of the clasps with a finger, then follows it with his mouth, back and forth from the edge of her stocking to the crease of her hip, unhooking each when he’s done. By the time he comes to the last one Clarke is panting, one leg over his shoulder, fingers deep in his hair, urging him closer. She can feel his smirk against her skin, but she’s so fucking close she doesn’t even care, just doesn’t want him to stop ever.

He pulls back only to draw her underwear down her legs, tossing it aside, but he leaves the stockings on as he laves her cunt with his mouth, and she’s pretty sure she’s never seen anything hotter in her life. She curls over him as she comes, hips rocking against his mouth and her nails indenting his shoulders. Bellamy keeps licking at her until she puts a hand to his forehead, pushing back. He stands, kissing his way back to her mouth until she absolutely needs air again.

Still shaking, she twists and presses her forehead into the wall. “Your turn,” she says over her shoulder.

Bellamy draws a hand over his face, looking wrecked already. “You sure? Because we don’t have to—”

“Bellamy, are you going to fuck me or not?”

He’s crowding her in the next second, raising her hands above her head and pressing them against the wall. Clarke whimpers into her arm. If she was in a better state of mind, she might worry at how much that turned her on. But she’s not, so she just leans back as Bellamy licks the shell of her ear while simultaneously shoving his pants down, like he can’t stop touching her for even a second. He wraps a firm arm around her waist as she twists her head for a sloppy kiss, more teeth and spit than anything else, but her hand finds his hair to hold him close anyways. Then he’s squeezing her ass and sinking inside of her inch by inch, and she moans and drops her head to his shoulder. 

It’s not gentle or slow—it’s exactly what she needs. The slap of flesh echoes in the apartment, loud and obscene. Turning her head for another kiss, she sees their reflection in the window, and the shock of watching him fuck her brings her nearly to the edge. Bellamy follows her gaze and smiles something wicked, drawing his hand lower and lower. Her lips part in a silent scream when he finds her clit, and when her orgasm hits she does scream, feeling him come undone with her.

Clarke sags against the wall, breathless. “I should wear these stockings more often,” she mumbles, and Bellamy laughs and kisses her cheek, almost tender. 

He insists that she shower to “work off the stress”, and although she feels pretty damn zen already, she agrees anyways because she secretly hopes that means she can stay the night. 

And when she sees his old sweats and t-shirt folded neatly on the toilet seat for her afterwards, she smiles, ignoring the fact that she's looking forward to his cuddling more than anything else.

 

IV.  
Clarke props her feet up in Bellamy’s lap, stretching along the length of his couch. She’s never too proud to turn down one of his amazing foot rubs, especially after standing in heels for several hours at the career fair. Plus, now that she’s been on the receiving end of those hands in other ways, she kind of can’t help herself.

It doesn’t stop her from arguing, though. 

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says defiantly, reaching for more popcorn. 

Bellamy arches an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Come on, seriously? Netflix and chill? That can’t be a thing.”

“Oh, but it is.”

She shoves him for his smugness, ignoring her own spark of jealousy. “What happened to just watching Netflix like a normal person?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. But come on, if you're dating someone and they ask you to come over and watch Netflix, do you really want to watch Netflix?"

_We're watching Netflix,_ she thinks sharply, then catches herself before she says it out loud. _You're not dating,_ her traitorous mind reminds her. Trying to push away the thought, she focuses on answering him.

"I'm just saying, I like watching Netflix too. It's not the worst to just hang out."

"I agree. But are you really telling me that if you’re sitting next to someone you like, you’re paying attention to the screen and not their every movement? That they wouldn't be distracting you at all?” Bellamy grins when she has no answer to that. “Told you. Netflix and chill.”

“Ridiculous,” she informs him, though she’s now hyperaware of his hand on her ankle and the way his bicep peeks out from the sleeve of his t-shirt as he throws an arm along the back of the couch.

“Come on, princess.” He looks at her curiously. “Have you really not heard about this?”

“Well it’s not like I’m getting flooded with offers,” she snaps, suddenly annoyed. Bellamy looks taken aback. Frustrated with herself, she stares at her lap. It’s already hard not to think about him like—like _that,_ but this really isn’t helping. She looks up when Bellamy grasps her knee. 

“Clarke—”

She waves a hand. “Forget it.” When his brow furrows even deeper, she sighs, knowing he’s not going to let it go. “I just—I haven’t gone on a date in weeks, alright?” _Even if I had, I’d probably just be thinking about you._

“Shame,” he says, though it doesn’t sound like he means it. “You must be pretty hard up, then,” he says conversationally.

Clarke glares. “I get by.”

“Got a new vibrator already?” Bellamy's grinning now, smug and superior.

“Fuck you.” Mostly out of irritation, she rubs her heel against his crotch, satisfied when he nearly knocks the bowl of popcorn to the floor. His eyes narrow. Clarke arches an eyebrow.

Deliberately slow, he moves the popcorn bowl to the coffee table, then wraps both hands around her ankles and tugs her closer. She squeaks, grabbing the cushion. Bellamy leans her back so that her head rests on the arm of the couch.

“Netflix and chill, huh,” she manages shakily, and he grins and kisses her soundly. They’re so attuned to each other that he wastes no time with cutesy shit, just slides his hand up her top while toying with that spot by her ear that makes her tilt her hips desperately. Getting rid of her shirt, he scrapes a nail over the cup of her bra, lips trailing lazily over the swell of her breasts until she tugs at his hair, impatient. She can feel his smirk as he reaches behind her to unhook it, then stops in confusion.

Now she smirks. “Front clasp. Thought you’d be an expert by now.”

A shit-eating grin crosses his face. “Seriously?” Bellamy laughs and leans down, kissing between her cleavage until he comes to the hook, curling a finger around it.

“That’s hot,” he says unexpectedly.

“What? Why?”

“Just is.” He shrugs, removing her bra and then his own shirt. “I didn’t know you had that kind.”

For some reason she blushes. “I didn’t know you were keeping track.” 

Bellamy doesn’t answer, just leans down to suck on the underside of her breast while his hand cups the other, and her back arches in silent plea until he covers a nipple with his warm mouth. She’s not thrilled with how eagerly she responds, but, well, she’s just gonna chalk that up to heat of the moment. And his talented tongue.

When he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move from her breasts, Clarke has to laugh.

His mouth quirks up. “What?”

“You planning to make a home there?”

“Didn’t hear you complaining. In fact, I think—”

“Shut up,” she orders. “It’s—I’m used to everyone else gawking at them, just not you.” Now she’s embarrassed for bringing it up. “Sorry. Forget it, it’s dumb.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy drops a kiss on her lips. “It’s not dumb.”

“Most people are looking there instead of my face when they talk to me, that’s all.”

He almost looks agitated. “I don’t do that. Right?”

“No, you don’t.” She pats his cheek. “Anymore,” she adds with a grin.

He grins back. “Good. It’s not because they aren’t amazing, though. Because they are.” 

“I’m well aware.”

“Yeah, well, if you ever need a reminder, I’m your guy,” he wiggles his eyebrows until she shoves him, giggling.

It’s this kind of stuff that’s killing her. She’s so comfortable around him, clothed or not, and he doesn’t treat her differently. He’s still her friend, still the person she can talk to no matter what, still the person who sets her blood boiling in all sorts of ways. 

But as much as she wants to, she can’t open her mouth to say as much, so she just focuses on his hands and mouth traversing her body, figuring at least she’ll have the memory for later. She’s embarrassingly wet when they’re both finally naked, but Bellamy doesn’t comment, just spreads her thighs and licks right into her.

“Ah—fuck, you’re too good at that,” she sighs without thinking. He laughs against her skin and she rolls her eyes. “Any way you’ll forget I just said that?”

“Not a damn chance,” he grins.

“You suck.” Clarke sits up and pushes him back until he’s sitting against the cushions, adjusting his limbs so his feet are flat on the floor.

Amused, Bellamy pinches her side. “Done manhandling me yet?”

“Not a chance.” She crawls into his lap, knees on either side of his hips. Aligning their bodies, she’s about to sink down when his hands tighten on her waist. Looking up, she sees the question on his face before he can ask. “Pill, remember? It’s fine. I’m clean. I mean, obviously. Since I’m not dating.”

He nods. “Okay. Me too. And—there hasn’t been anyone for a while either.”

She tilts her head. “Really?” 

“Really.”

“How—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy mumbles into her neck, stubble scratching her skin. “Do you really want to talk about this right now?” To make his point, his hands cup her ass.

“N-no. Forget it.” She lowers slowly, her cheek mashed to his, her body stretching until he’s deep inside. But even as they begin to rock together, his words linger in her mind. 

It’s hard to figure out why he’s single. Even more concerning is that she wants it to stay that way.

 

V.  
Wrapped in just her fluffy blue towel, hair still damp and curling over her shoulders, Clarke looks at herself in the mirror. Her reflection is not someone who looks excited to be going on a date. Her reflection is someone who keeps thinking about the _after,_ the part where she'll probably go to Bellamy's and drink the rest of the night away and have more fun than the actual date itself.

And there's a more vocal part of her wondering why the hell she isn’t dating Bellamy.

~~~~~~~

Bellamy opens his door in an old blue Star Wars t-shirt, looking mildly surprised.

“Hey. Don’t you have a date to be at?”

“I did. I canceled.”

“Okay…” His eyebrows knit, and Clarke can see his mind already working a mile a minute. “Then you’re here because…”

“I don’t have an excuse this time,” she blurts out loudly.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t have an excuse. I didn’t accidentally text you, nobody pissed me off, I’m not lonely— I was getting ready for my date and I realized I didn’t even want to go on it unless you were there.” Clarke pauses for breath, her heart in overdrive at the look on his face. “I want _you,_ Bellamy.” 

His astonished expression lasts maybe two seconds, and then it’s replaced by delight as he pulls her into his arms, planting his mouth on hers with zero hesitation. All her nerves melt into joy.

“Thank god,” he says between kisses. “Do you know how exhausting this has been?”

Clarke laughs, giddy. “That’s your response? That I’m exhausting?” Her back hits the door as she returns his kisses just as fiercely, delaying his answer.

“I didn’t say _you_ were,” he mumbles against her cheek. “But this… this was torture. It was like everything in the world was out to remind me of you. Everywhere I went, I saw things you liked, things you'd told me about, heard that stupid song you like so much--”

“Which one?”

“The one by that astronaut band.”

She’s confused for a long moment, but in between raising her hands to remove her shirt and undoing his belt buckle, she figures it out. “Walk the Moon?” She laughs. “God, how do you not know the name of that song? They repeat it like 20 times.”

“Shut up and dance with me,” Bellamy grins and hoists her into his arms, teeth flicking at her bra strap as she wraps herself around him.

“Loser.”

“Too late. I know you love me.” He lays her gently on the bed, nuzzling her cheek.

“Yeah—well… you love me,” she shoots back lamely.

Bellamy laughs and kisses her. “I think you’re the last person in the world to figure that one out.”

She grins and winds her arms over his shoulders, sighing when he presses her down into the mattress. It’s like they both suddenly realize the other isn’t going anywhere, and everything slows. What was always a rush of adrenaline and desperate need turns into playful nips and leisurely touches.

Even the way he kisses her feels different now. It’s long and slow and just so… _loving._ Like all he wants to do is make out with her. Like _she’s_ the prize.

“Hey.” Bellamy noses her cheek. “Where’d you go?”

Clarke smiles and just hugs him with a happy sigh. “Nowhere. Just thinking that I’m definitely in love with you.”

His whole body seems to melt against hers. She rakes her fingers through his hair, already disheveled, thanks to her. She likes that it’s her fault. Bellamy lays his head on her shoulder.

“Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind if you feel the need to keep saying that.”

She laughs and whispers the words into his ear, against his forehead, along his cheek, until he kisses her again in that wonderfully new way. 

“You never kissed like that before,” she says, mouth against his jaw.

“I didn’t think you wanted that,” he replies. “It was always—it always felt like there was a ticking clock, you know?”

“What, like I’d become a pumpkin at midnight?”

Bellamy chuckles. “That’s not the fairytale at all, you know. But—yeah. Something like that. I wasn’t sure if you wanted anything more, and I was too chickenshit to bring it up myself and ruin what we _do_ have.”

Clarke gets it. In a way, he was just protecting himself, too. She cradles his cheek.

“Well, now there’s no clock. So you’ll have to deal, because I’m in love with you and I want you to kiss me and touch me all the time. In fact I’m probably going to insist on it,” she says, loving how his eyes light up. “And I’m basically not going to leave your bed, like ever.”

“Not even for shower sex?” Bellamy grins. “‘Cause I really want to try that.”

“Fine. Only for the shower. Or the wall,” she adds belatedly. “And maybe the kitchen counter.”

He lets out something that’s half sigh, half laugh, and all joy. “I really fucking love you.” 

Clarke smiles and pulls his head down for another kiss. Their fingers lace together by her head as she lets herself marvel in the fit of his body over hers, the hard press of his chest and perfect warmth of his lips. 

“Bellamy,” she sighs, and he lifts his head to smile at her.

“I’m going to leave a ton of hickeys,” he says, unapologetic.

“Such a loser,” she reiterates, but it’s not like she minds, honestly. And it’s not like it’ll be one-sided.

He sets about doing just that, first by her ear and then along her neck while she just tangles her hands in his hair and sinks further into the pillow, stupidly happy. 

Then a thought occurs to her. “Wait. You said _everyone_ knew?” She feels his answered _yes_ against her ribs and shivers. “Even Raven?”

“She was the first one to figure it out.”

“Then why didn’t she say anything?”

Bellamy chuckles, resting his chin on her stomach and looking up. “Because I threatened to spill her dirty secrets to Wick otherwise.”

“You don’t know her dirty secrets.”

“I can imagine.” He rises to kiss her again. “She’s at the end of her rope, though. Last week she told me I had ‘til the end of the month before she butted in. Pretty sure she and O have a bet going too.”

“Oh god.” Clarke pushes at his shoulder, rolling them over so she can settle over him. “You know what you should do,” she says between bites to his chest, “pretend like you want in on it, and then we can time it so that you ‘win’ and split the money.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or turned on that you’re thinking so hard right now.” Grinning, Bellamy sits up and unclasps her bra, closing his mouth over her breast and humming agreeably when she arches in his lap, greedily clutching at his hair. Then he shifts, and the sudden pressure against her center makes her whine and bite down on his shoulder. 

“Bell,” she sighs. He twists them so that she’s on her back again, and they get rid of the rest of their clothes in a hurry. She urges him between her legs, sweeping her hands along his back and closing her eyes as he fits into the crook of her body.

He says her name just once, a cracked whisper, and she forces her eyes open again to meet his, crinkling at the corners as he looks down at her. Clarke smiles and leans up to nip at the crease in his chin, and then at his bottom lip, and then he’s kissing her long and deep as their bodies join. Her walls stretch to welcome him with ease, the full weight of him making her sigh into his mouth. She knows Bellamy well enough to know he’ll try to slow this even though they both want more, so she rolls her hips purposefully, grinning when he shudders and sinks inside her with one full thrust, biting her lip in the process.

She curls her arms around his shoulders as he rises to his elbows, drawing out almost all the way before snapping his hips back against hers. Her eyes shut on instinct, his name falling from her mouth as her back arches. She can _feel_ the smugness even with her eyes shut.

“Stop smirking,” she breathes, hitching her legs up higher around his waist.

Bellamy laughs and just snaps his hips again, catching her moan with a kiss that makes her head spin. After that it’s all she can do to breathe and just hold on, her body perfectly fitted between Bellamy and the bed. She vaguely registers the mattress hitting the wall over and over, but it only makes her feel smug as shit because it’s _her_ in the bed with him, and she kind of prefers that everyone know it.

“Trust me, everyone’s going to know,” Bellamy says roughly against her ear, and her eyes shoot open in surprise. He grins, slowing his thrusts until she’s gripping his biceps with shaky breaths. “You think out loud, princess.”

“Fuck you,” she mutters, but he just chuckles and pulls her left leg higher, making her gasp with his next thrust.

“Already doing that,” he replies, and it’s her turn to laugh, because he really is such a nerd, but he’s _her_ nerd now, and it’s kind of the best.

The new angle makes her eyes roll back into her skull with alarming speed, and soon she has her face pressed to his shoulder, her cunt throbbing around his cock as he drives deep. She squeezes her legs tight around him, unable to stop the sounds leaving her mouth as she comes. It breaks the rest of Bellamy’s control and he soon follows with a few hard thrusts, mouth open against her neck. 

Lazily, she cards her fingers through his hair, scraping her nails along his neck and grinning when he twitches. He moves a minute later, kissing away her protest and pulling her up with him, continuing to kiss her soft and quick even as they clean up.

She’s quick to find his shirt and get back under the covers, arching an eyebrow when he just stands there with a grin.

“What? I was serious about not leaving this bed.”

Still grinning hugely, Bellamy slides back in next to her, curling an arm around her shoulders and letting out his own small sigh when she hooks her leg around his. He lifts his hand to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her lips until she kisses the pad of his fingertip. 

“What is it?" She asks.

"I want to know what you're thinking."

Clarke wraps her arms around him, smiling contentedly. “It's just nice not to be wondering if it’s the last time I get to do this.”

Bellamy’s grip tightens as he tilts her chin up for a kiss. “Not even close,” he promises.

She grins. She can definitely get used to that.


	2. Bellamy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same story, Bellamy POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never say never, I guess XD

I.  
Bellamy still can’t quite believe the message is on his screen, even after he’s read it a dozen times to make sure it’s real. And yet, in the pale blue of a chat bubble, there they are. Five words, accompanied by the most ambiguous smiley known to man—and all from Clarke.

_You up? I have wine ;)_

Is it possible they’re meant for him? He’s sent enough of these texts to know what this is. At 1a.m., of all things. Fuck. But—he would have seen the signs, right? And this isn’t Clarke’s style. At least, he doesn’t _think_ it is. But it’s not like he knows a ton about her flirting habits. If anything, he makes an effort to avoid those conversations for the most part. Yeah, they’re great friends and she can talk to him about pretty much anything, and usually does, but that—somehow, that’s a topic they’ve managed to skirt. At least, while sober.

It’s been nearly ten minutes when he realizes he’s just sitting on his couch and staring at his phone, not having typed a single word. But Clarke will know he’s seen the text, thanks to the magic of technology. And whether the words are meant for him or not, his silence has probably done a bang-up job of freaking her out. 

So instead of texting, Bellamy calls her. He’d bet his last paycheck on her ringtone still being set to that song he hears everywhere, the one that always makes her perk up and dance in her seat, and manages to make him smile because of it. 

When the call goes to voicemail, he texts her once.

_Pick up._

Before he can second-guess himself, he calls again, taking an extra second to stare at her contact picture on his phone. It’s a selfie she took with his phone on one of their late night drives for ice cream. She’s cross-eyed and generally looking silly, his blue baseball cap sitting backwards atop her blonde tresses. And she was definitely singing that song while she took the picture.

_”Just keep your eyes on me_  
_I said you’re holding back_  
_Shut up and dance with me_  
_This woman is my destiny."_

By the time she got to the _oooohhh-OOOHH,_ her voice higher than natural and singing directly into his ear, he'd been laughing, too. 

Honestly, he could stare at the photo for hours. Not that he has, or anything.

This time, Clarke answers after two rings. “Hey.” Her voice is too quiet to mean anything good, so he just cuts straight to it.

“Did you mean it?”

“I—what?”

“Did you mean it?” He repeats urgently. “That text.”

“I… uh,” Clarke fumbles, sounding anxious. “Sort of,” she finally says. “It just—it was a mistake, alright? I meant to send it to Lexa but I sent it to you by accident because I forgot you changed your name in my contacts list.”

Bellamy feels too many things at once after she says that. Disappointment. Irritation. Jealousy. Hysteria, that one stupid drunken act designed to drive her crazy has somehow brought them to this moment. 

Clarke has taken his silence the wrong way and is now rambling on. “I mean who fucking calls themselves ‘Lava Lips’ anyways. It would have just defaulted to Lexa, she’s the only L name in here, so really if you think about it this is kind of your fault—”

_”Clarke.”_

She sighs. “Yeah.”

“You really were gonna text your ex for a booty call?”

“It’s not—” she tries to say, then swears and drops the act. “Well who else would I call? I just—I’m tired and maybe a little tipsy and just… it’s lonely. And my vibrator broke.”

Mother fucker. Bellamy claps a hand over his eyes as if that’ll somehow stop the images her words have brought on. 

“Jesus, Clarke.” Knowing her, she probably has no idea what she just did to him. And if he lets this continue, she’ll probably find some way to play this off and hang up, wallowing in her embarrassment. And seeing as they are _both_ now hard up, that feels like a waste. So, surprising himself, he adds, “Well, you can always call me, you know.”

“To complain about how lonely and horny I am?” Clarke says dryly. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you want to hear on a Saturday night.”

“No, not that,” Bellamy says carefully, clearing his throat. His palms are suddenly sweaty. “I mean, yeah, you can vent, but, what I meant was—” He shuts his eyes tight, already regretting this. “You know what, forget it. It’s fine.”

“Hang on. Were you—are you offering to come over?” She sounds stunned.

“I mean, if you’d asked me to, I would have. That’s all.” _Smooth, idiot._

“Why?” 

Because I’m crazy about you. Because I don’t want you to call her. Because I don’t want you to be alone. He could say all of those things, or none of them. So he settles for the simplest version of the truth.

“Because, being alone sucks sometimes. And you don’t need all of Lexa’s bullshit anyways. You got enough of that the first go,” he adds, a bit of anger creeping through. Clarke remains silent. Worried, he adds a tiny lie. “If it was me—well, I mean, it’s a friend helping out a friend for a night. No weird shit.”

Bellamy shuts up after that, letting her consider. He knows Clarke needs to think through this, tipsy or not, and he’s not about to put his foot in his mouth any further.

After what feels like an eternity, she quietly admits, “That does sound better.”

His throat goes dry.

“So…” He’s already searching for his keys. “Are you asking?”

“Yeah. I’m asking,” she whispers. Her voice sounds nothing like he’s ever heard. He wonders if she’s blushing. God, he wants to see her blush.

“Okay. I’ll see you in ten.”

Raking a hand through his hair, Bellamy grabs his keys and all but runs out the door, trying not to think about the fact that Clarke is waiting for him—for _him._ Downstairs, he realizes he’s forgotten his license and rushes back up. The next time, he gets to his car before realizing he’s still in his socks. 

He’s a fucking wreck, and he hasn’t even seen her yet.

Somehow he makes it to her place in ten minutes as promised, trying to calm his nerves and wondering if he should ask for a drink first. Then Clarke opens the door.

The sheer amount of skin on display makes his mouth water. She crosses one bare leg in front of the other, paint-splattered shorts riding even higher with the movement. Her purple tank top is doing next to nothing to contain her cleavage, and when she folds her arms under her breasts— _fuck._

A minute later, they’re both still standing there, not having said a word. Bellamy can’t help but smirk.

“So, can I come in? Or did you change your mind already? Because I gotta tell you, princess—”

Clarke’s mouth swallows the rest of his words. He stumbles backward with a grunt of surprise, hands automatically flying to her waist. Her lips are soft but insistent, arms curled around his neck like she’s willing him not to go. As if going anywhere is on his mind.

Finally his brain moves past freaking out and his lips are moving against hers, warm and hungry. She presses closer with a simple hum in agreement that makes his head spin. It doesn’t take long for them to settle into the push and pull of a rhythm that feels oddly comfortable and oddly them. When her tongue eagerly pushes past his lips, Bellamy hears himself groan. 

He moves them inside, kicking the door shut and at the same time sliding his hands to her ass. She takes the hint and jumps up, sighing when he wraps his hands around her thighs. Twisting her fingers into his curls, Clarke kisses him anywhere she can reach while he stumbles to her room. She smells like peaches; the taste of her favorite white wine lingers on her tongue. 

Finally Bellamy finds the bed and sits, pressing his face into her neck as she squeezes her knees around his waist. Abandoning the last of his control, he sucks a trail along her skin, pausing only to pull her hair loose from its bun and threading his fingers through her curls the way he’s always wanted to. Soon after, his lips reattach to her skin. He’s desperate to taste every inch of her. When his mouth travels behind her ear, Clarke lets out a low whine. She's writhing in his lap, hands clutching at his shoulders. 

Overwhelmed, Bellamy noses at the strap of her top. ”I thought you would have moves,” he teases.

“I have moves,” Clarke argues, breathless. “I just can’t remember them when your mouth is doing—that.”

He’s pretty sure she didn’t intend to say that last bit, but it does wonders for his ego nonetheless. Then she strips off her shirt, and his mind goes blank at the sight of her breasts, nipples pink and beaded and begging for attention.

“Bellamy.” Clarke is grinning when he drags his eyes up to hers. “Any day now.”

He swears under his breath, then splays his hands wide on her back and leans forward, tugging a nipple into his mouth. She moans and digs her nails into his shoulders. Something like approval rumbles in his throat and he sucks a little harder, teeth scraping against the bud.

“Fuck,” Clarke’s voice cracks. “Bellamy, please, I’m—”

He lowers her to the mattress, following to hover on his elbows. “What do you need?”

She looks torn for a moment, so to prevent her from overthinking anything, Bellamy tugs off her shorts and underwear all at once, keeping his eyes on hers. Smiling faintly, he rests a hand on her closed knees. 

“This isn’t one and done, you know. I told you I’d stay all night and I’m going to, unless you say otherwise. So,” he leans closer and sucks on her bottom lip, “what do you need, Clarke?”

Clarke gives in. “Mouth,” she manages. “Please, use your mouth.”

His lips curve and he kisses her again, deep and dirty, before shifting down her body. He wants to pay attention to every dip and curve, but there will be time for that later—fuck , he hopes there will be a later. Bellamy pushes the thought aside. Right now, he wants to make Clarke feel good. No, better than that—amazing. She squirms when he noses at the thatch of curls between her thighs, and soon her legs part at the gentle pressure of his hands. It’s some kind of miracle he doesn’t come on the spot. Clarke is so wet. For him.

“Shit,” he breathes. Because he thinks he might say something stupid, he just does what he wants to—licks up her slit. Clarke cries out, a hand fisting in the sheets and the other in his hair, and god does he like that even more. He dips his tongue inside her, holding her hips down sure and steady. The first time he looks up, her whole body is flushed a gorgeous pink, her head tossed back and lips parted. Unconsciously, his hips rut against the mattress, trying to relieve the pressure in his groin that’s been there since she flung her arms around him. 

The second time he glances up, she’s watching him. 

The possessive pride that jolts through him is strong, if unexpected, and he maybe tightens his hold. Clarke’s legs are trembling around him, her words slipping into gasps. Bellamy closes his mouth over her clit, determined, and soon she’s calling to him, hips jerking against his face as she comes. He remains until she stops shaking, then stretches out beside her until her eyes open again.

“Okay?” He asks.

“You know it was better than that,” she replies, reaching for him. “Why are you still dressed?” She questions against his mouth.

He chokes out a laugh. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

Clarke pushes him to his back, settling atop the hard bulge in his pants and rocking her hips. He bucks out of instinct, hands clutching at her waist. Smirking, she leans down to kiss him, then proceeds to get him just as naked as her with a speed that both impresses and arouses him further.

If one night is all he gets, he doesn’t plan to sleep at all.

 

II.  
They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about the fact that he’s had his head between her thighs for more hours than they actually slept. They don’t talk about how his shoulders and back sting with the scrapes her nails left behind when she was rocking above him. Or that they ordered pizza and watched Broad City on her laptop until she laughed so hard that Bellamy knew he always wanted to be the reason for her laughter. Or how they woke up tangled together and each pretended to sleep a little longer just because.

They don’t talk about it at all—but it doesn’t mean Bellamy stops thinking about it.

Every time Clarke’s name pops up on his phone, his heart thrashes wildly, like it’s trying to tell him something. He soon has a full bottle of her favorite white wine in his fridge for whenever he wants to reclaim the taste of her tongue. When she blushes in a room full of people, Bellamy remembers how all of her turned that color and nearly pulls her into a closet so he can see it again. And on the occasions that they are hanging out alone—which are often, since she’s one of his best friends—he continues to argue with her while pretending he’s not looking for the hickey he left behind her ear or ignoring how her laugh now sends butterflies through his stomach or how much he wants to just take her into his arms whenever they’re together.

He even lets her and his sister convince him to ask a girl out one night at the bar. He can’t really read Clarke at all, and he’s too drunk to analyze anything, so he goes along with it. Her name is Emma, and she’s pretty and holds a conversation well (from what he remembers) and he starts to think it might not be such a bad idea. 

Then, just when Bellamy thinks he’s gotten decent at pretending—he gets stood up.

It’s strange that it affects him so much. Not really because he was looking forward to the date that much, but moreso just the possibility of maybe, somehow, moving on from this insane crush he has on his best friend. It’s not like he enjoys this feeling of being so off-kilter around Clarke—and worst of all, others are starting to notice. Between Raven’s pointed glares and Octavia’s sympathetic cuffs to his head, he’s suddenly has a whole new problem—Clarke finding out from someone else.

But what is he supposed to do? It’s not like he can just bring it up in daily conversation.

 _Want another beer? Oh by the way I think I’m in love with you. So, refill?_

Now, lounging on the couch beside Clarke, he nearly snorts at the thought. He hasn’t been paying attention to the TV for the past fifteen minutes, ever since she sat down a little too close and his senses were flooded with peaches all over again. She’s being too nice, offering to watch the documentaries that usually make her yawn and ordering pizza with extra black olives even though she hates them.

And now, the freaking _peaches_ that makes him just want to melt against her.

She twists the cap off her third beer and tosses it on the table. Or is it her fourth? He’s lost count.

He nudges her knee. “Stop drinking all my beer.”

“Fuck you, it’s my beer that I leave here because I hate yours.”

“No it’s not. I bought this beer because I knew you were coming and I drank all of yours already.”

Bellamy winces as soon as the words are out. So maybe it’s not just the wine that reminds him of her. Hopefully she won’t ask exactly _why_ he had to go and drink her beer. Not exactly the conversation he wants to have right now. Or ever.

Clarke is staring at him, but he keeps his gaze on the TV, one arm thrown over his head and praying his expression is blank enough.

Finally, she says, “Emma’s an idiot.”

The venom in her voice makes his eyes dart to hers. Clarke sets her beer on the table and shifts so that she’s flush against him on the couch. He’s slumped so far down that his head is near her jaw, so when she turns to the right her lips meet the curls over his forehead. Bellamy looks up through his lashes, unsure, until he sees the decision on her face. 

Then his hands are in her hair and she’s scrambling onto his lap, mouths meeting with urgency.

“Just for tonight,” she gets out, biting his earlobe.

“Tonight,” he agrees, and stands up with her wrapped around him, making it to his bed in record time. 

Clarke tugs off his shirt and sets her mouth to his chest immediately, tracing the planes of his torso with such vigor that Bellamy briefly wonders if it’s possible she’s been thinking about this too. He can’t quite form words when her tongue traces down his sternum, settling for gripping her hard and staring at the ceiling. Then her teeth scrape over the jut of his hipbone and he jerks and curses loudly, dying a small death when she grins at him wickedly. 

“Clarke,” he rasps, “get back up here.”

She does, but not before unbuttoning his jeans so she can sneak her hand in and palm him through his briefs. Bellamy moans brokenly into her mouth and feels her lips curve into a satisfied smirk before she pulls back, leaving him without air. Clarke removes her shirt and bra quickly, but stays just out of his reach, a glint in her eye. Bellamy watches her scoot back down the bed, obediently raising his hips to let her pull off his pants and briefs. His eyes close when her hand wraps around his thick length, giving a firm tug.

Then he feels impossibly soft skin that makes his cock twitch, followed by the briefest brush of her tongue sneaking out to swipe over the head of him.

“Jesus, princess,” his groan is loud in the room, fingers winding tightly into her hair. “Give a guy some warning.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” With that, Clarke hums and closes her lips around his cock. Bellamy swears again and strains to keep his eyes open, because the sight of her taking more of him into her mouth and bobbing up and down is something he never thought he’d see once, let alone twice now. He’s beyond forming words of any sort, but she seems to understand what he likes by the way he grabs her hair when her tongue flutters or her hand grips him a certain way. In no time, he feels the familiar pressure coil low in his body, and grasps her shoulder in warning.

“I’m close,” he pants, expecting her to pull off. 

Instead Clarke meets his gaze and sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks, twisting her hand at the base of his cock. His breath coming in stuttering syllables, Bellamy can only stare even as his hips pump harder, and eventually his head falls back, the hand in her hair tightening as he comes with a groan, her name on his lips. When Clarke finally releases him with a wet _pop,_ he pulls her up and crushes their lips together.

“You—shit,” he breathes, kissing her hard. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” is all she says. After gulping in some much-needed air, he flips them over, tugging her pants down and rubbing the heel of his hand over her damp panties, gratified when she keens his name. It’s easy to sink a finger into her warmth, her muscles clenching. Clarke mewls helplessly into his neck. He doesn’t mean to go so treacherously slow, but he’s captivated by her every reaction, wanting to memorize exactly what she likes. Just—just in case.

Then she clutches at his shoulders, hips canting up desperately. “More, Bell, come on,” she whines. He complies without a word, adding two more and covering her rising moans with his mouth until she comes.

After they clean up, Bellamy gives Clarke his old sweatshirt, which swarms her adorably once she’s poked her head through and leaves him with no option but to pull her close to his chest, an arm solidly curled around her back.

She grins up at him in surprise even while wedging a leg between both of his. “Cuddle much?”

“Just shut up and sleep,” he says gruffly.

 _I’m never getting over you,_ he thinks right before drifting off.

 

III.  
Clarke’s wearing makeup.

That’s all Bellamy manages to take in before she charges into his apartment, heels clacking on the hardwood floors.

“Unbelievable,” she fumes, throwing her scarf to the side and sending her coat after it. Soft waves have come loose from her updo, flying around her face as she begins to pace. “After all that nagging and shopping and lecturing, she expects that I’ll just sit there politely and take it? And the whole time she’s pretending like I knew, like it wasn’t a setup—”

“Clarke, hey,” Bellamy takes her shoulders. “Slow down. Start from the beginning. What did Abby do?”

She twists away again, too angry to stay still. He lets her. He’s only seen Clarke this angry a handful of times, and usually Abby’s had something to do with it. This time, apparently, is no different.

“I went to that stupid banquet,” Clarke says. “I let mom convince me it would be networking, nothing more.” Raking her hands through her hair, she laughs bitterly. “Her friend brought his son. You can guess where that was going.”

Bellamy feels his sympathy slowly turning to anger. And yeah, okay, he’s jealous. Even if Clarke wanted nothing to do with this stranger, the fact that he’ll never be one of those rich, polished people who’s deemed good enough for her—it sets his blood on fire. As if any of them really know her. 

Clarke’s still venting. “I mean, I even listened to all her bullshit this week, because I thought she was actually being helpful for once. And yet again, I’m a fucking fool. Just another warm body to be shown off—”

Bellamy steps in front of her pacing, hands framing her face as he pulls her to him. He doesn’t want to hear any more, not right now. Right now he wants to remind her, and himself, that they’re better than this. And he knows Clarke. She doesn’t need a pity party. She needs anger to match her own; something just as furious as how she’s feeling right now.

So he’ll be that for her.

Clarke gasps as his tongue dives past her lips, but doesn’t take long to respond. Her hands clutch tightly at his hair as she presses herself close, like she can mold their bodies into one. Bellamy moves them until her back hits the wall, meeting the furor of her kisses. When he wedges a knee between her legs, she moans and grinds down without hesitation, and he laughs hotly against her neck.

Without warning, he spins her to face the wall, dragging down the zipper of her dress. He drops kisses along her shoulder, down her arms, smiling at the goosebumps he leaves behind as more of her beautiful skin is uncovered. Then Clarke wiggles her ass against him and a low groan flies past his teeth. Soon he’s on his knees to tug the dress off entirely, her heels following.

Then he looks up and stops.

Clarke looks down blearily to find him staring dumbly at her stockings—or, more accurately, the point where they stop halfway up her thighs and clip to her panties. His throat is dry; even if he could speak, his brain is mush.

“Oh.” Clarke turns a gorgeous shade of red. “I—um, all the others have runs in them and mom was yelling at me to hurry, so I just—” She shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “I figured no one would know the difference.”

Bellamy just nods, strained. 

“I bought them as a joke.” Then, rather pointedly, she adds, “Never ended up wearing them for anyone, though.”

His eyes snap to hers. She’s biting her lip and looking at him almost curiously, like she wants an answer to some unspoken question. Whatever she sees in his face makes something triumphant flare in her eyes. Bellamy’s too far gone to care about whatever he just gave away.

Slowly, his brain begins to work again, and he decides to take his time, wanting to unwrap this part of her like the best sort of gift. He traces each of the clasps with a finger, then follows it with his mouth, back and forth from the edge of her stocking to the crease of her hip, unhooking each when he’s done and taking special pleasure in the way Clarke trembles. By the time he comes to the last one, she’s panting, one leg over his shoulder, fingers deep in his hair, urging him closer. Bellamy can’t help but smirk against her skin, because she’s positively drenched now, and he is absolutely the cause of it.

He pulls back only to draw her underwear down her legs, tossing it aside, but leaves the stockings on, the thin material grazing his cheeks as as he buries his face up against her cunt. Clarke curls over him as she comes, hips rocking against his mouth and nails indenting his shoulders, and it’s without a doubt the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Bellamy keeps licking at her until she puts a hand to his forehead, pushing back. He stands, kissing his way back to her mouth until they absolutely need air again.

He’s about to suggest she take a bath or something, but instead she twists and presses her forehead into the wall, still shaking. 

“Your turn,” she says over her shoulder.

Bellamy draws a hand over his face, already wrecked. “You sure? Because we don’t have to—”

“Bellamy, are you going to fuck me or not?” 

It’s not even a question—more a demand.

So he’s crowding her in the next second, raising her hands above her head and pinning them against the wall. Clarke whimpers into her arm, the sound shooting straight to his groin. Boy does he want to revisit _that_ reaction, but right now he’s too busy shoving his pants down and mouthing at her earlobe because he can’t stop touching her for even a second. Bellamy wraps a firm arm around her waist as she twists her head for a sloppy kiss, more teeth and spit than anything else. Her hand finds his hair to hold him close. Then he’s squeezing her ass and sinking inside of her, and she moans and drops her head to his shoulder.

It’s not gentle or slow—it still feels like them. The slap of flesh echoes in the apartment, loud and obscene. He’s kissing her neck, her cheek, urging her to turn her head so his lips can find hers, when he sees her blue eyes fixated on the window. Bellamy follows her gaze; she's watching their reflection. Watching him fuck her. He smiles something wicked.

Keeping his eyes locked on hers in the window, he drags his hand lower and lower. Her lips part in a silent scream when he finds her clit, and when her orgasm hits she does scream. He comes undone with her, pressing his forehead to her shoulder and gripping her waist hard enough to leave outlines behind.

Clarke sags against the wall, breathless. “I should wear these stockings more often,” she mumbles almost absently, and Bellamy laughs and kisses her cheek.

He insists that she shower — to work off the stress and all — and when she agrees easily, hope flares in his heart because it means she might stay the night. He leaves some clothes folded on the toilet seat, just in case, and forces all thoughts of her showering out of his head after that.

But there’s no hiding his delight when she crawls into bed beside him wearing his old sweats and t-shirt, so he just pulls her close, ignoring the fact that he's looking forward to cuddling more than anything else.

 

IV.  
Clarke swings her feet into his lap with zero hesitation.

She’d looked exhausted when she walked in after the career fair, so after making popcorn and starting up Netflix, Bellamy had offered a foot rub. He knows full well that Clarke has a particular weakness for them, especially after standing in heels for several hours. So when she lets out a small sigh and stretches back on the couch, he can’t help but smile.

It doesn’t stop her from arguing, though.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Clarke says defiantly, reaching for more popcorn.

Bellamy arches an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Come on, seriously? Netflix and chill? That can’t be a thing.”

“Oh, but it is,” he grins, enjoying himself immensely when she shoves him.

“What happened to just watching Netflix like a normal person?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. But come on, if you're dating someone and they ask you to come over and watch Netflix, do you really want to watch Netflix?"

Clarke opens her mouth, then closes it abruptly, studying her lap for a moment. He frowns; it’s not like her to filter her thoughts so much—at least, not with him. He wonders what she’s not saying.

Finally she replies, "I'm just saying, I like watching Netflix too. It's not the worst to just hang out."

"I agree,” he says slowly, trying to figure out what just happened. “But are you really telling me that if you’re sitting next to someone you like, you’re paying attention to the screen and not their every movement? That they wouldn't be distracting you at all?” Bellamy grins when she has no answer to that. “Told you. Netflix and chill.”

“Ridiculous,” she informs him. Her arms are folded across her chest, mouth quirked in a cute little pout that makes him want to kiss her.

“Come on, princess.” He looks at her curiously. “Have you really not heard about this?”

“Well it’s not like I’m getting flooded with offers,” she snaps suddenly. Bellamy is taken aback. Clarke looks at her lap again, purposely avoiding him. This time the color on her cheeks is from embarrassment, and he feels bad for putting it there. 

He grasps her knee. “Clarke—”

She waves a hand. “Forget it.” But he can’t. He won’t. He watches her, waiting, until she sighs. “I just—I haven’t gone on a date in weeks, alright?” 

_Go out with me, go out with me me me—_

“Shame,” he says, though it comes out sounding more like _awesome._ “You must be pretty hard up, then,” he says conversationally.

Clarke glares. “I get by.”

“Got a new vibrator already?” Bellamy grins smugly.

“Fuck you.” Irritated, she rubs her heel against his crotch, looking too satisfied when he nearly knocks the bowl of popcorn to the floor. His eyes narrow. Clarke arches an eyebrow.

_Alright, princess. Challenge accepted._

Deliberately slow, Bellamy moves the popcorn bowl to the coffee table, then wraps both hands around her ankles and tugs her closer. She squeaks, grabbing the cushion. Bellamy leans her back so that her head rests on the arm of the couch.

“Netflix and chill, huh,” she manages shakily, and he grins and kisses her soundly. They’re so attuned to each other that he wastes no time with cutesy shit, just slides his hand up her top while toying with that spot by her ear that makes her tilt her hips desperately. Getting rid of her shirt, he scrapes a nail over the cup of her bra, lips trailing lazily over the alluring swell of her breasts until she tugs at his hair, impatient. He smirks and reaches behind her to unhook it, then stops in confusion.

Now Clarke smirks. “Front clasp. Thought you’d be an expert by now.”

A shit-eating grin crosses his face. “Seriously?” He laughs and leans down, kissing between her cleavage until he comes to the hook, curling a finger around it. _That’s hot._

“What? Why?” She asks.

Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to come out.

He shrugs, removing her bra and then his own shirt. “Just is. I didn’t know you had that kind.”

She blushes, and this time it’s the good kind. “I didn’t know you were keeping track.”

He can’t answer that, so he just leans down to suck on the underside of her breast while his hand cups the other globe, and her back arches in silent plea until he covers a nipple with his mouth, sucking gently. Clarke buries her fingers deep into his curls. Leisurely, he drags his mouth to her other breast, taking his sweet time. Yeah, maybe he’s a bit obsessed with her boobs, but, well, they’re phenomenal. And frankly Clarke’s earnest responses are well worth it alone.

Then she laughs, squeaky.

His mouth quirks up. “What?”

Clarke arches an eyebrow. “You planning to make a home there?”

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” he drawls. “In fact, I think—”

“Shut up,” she orders. “It’s—I’m used to everyone else gawking at them, just not you.” Now she’s starting to withdraw, avoiding his gaze. “Sorry. Forget it, it’s dumb.”

“Clarke,” he scoots up and drops a kiss on her lips, caressing her jaw until she looks at him. “It’s not dumb,” he says.

“Most people are looking there instead of my face when they talk to me, that’s all," she explains after a moment.

Agitated, he asks, “I don’t do that. Right?”

“No, you don’t.” She pats his cheek. “Anymore,” she adds with a grin.

Bellamy grins back. “Good. It’s not because they aren’t amazing, though. Because they are.”

“I’m well aware,” she says dryly.

“Yeah, well, if you ever need a reminder, I’m your guy,” he wiggles his eyebrows until Clarke shoves him, giggling.

It’s this kind of stuff that’s killing him. Bellamy doesn’t want to be _just_ her boyfriend or _just_ her friend. He wants to be her best friend who also gets to kiss her and touch her and love her, to make her laugh and sigh and smile all the time.

But as much as he wants to, he can’t open his mouth to say as much, so he just focuses on exploring her body, figuring at least he’ll have the memory for later. When they’re both finally naked, he’s maybe a bit too eager to spread her legs and lick right into her.

“Ah—fuck, you’re too good at that,” Clarke sighs, and he laughs against her skin. She rolls her eyes. “Any way you’ll forget I just said that?”

“Not a damn chance,” he grins.

“You suck.” Clarke sits up and pushes him back until he’s sitting against the cushions, adjusting his limbs so his feet are flat on the floor.

Amused, Bellamy pinches her side. “Done manhandling me yet?”

“Not a chance.” She crawls into his lap, knees on either side of his hips as she kisses him fiercely again. Aligning their bodies, she’s about to sink down when he pulls back, tightening his hands on her waist. Clarke sees the question on his face before he can ask. “Pill, remember? It’s fine. I’m clean. I mean, obviously. Since I’m not dating.”

He nods. “Okay. Me too. And—” He swallows, debating. To hell with it. “There hasn’t been anyone for a while either.”

She tilts her head, eyes widening. “Really?”

“Really.”

“How—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy mumbles into her neck, teeth nipping lightly. “Do you really want to talk about this right now?” To make his point, his hands cup her ass. The distraction works.

“N-no. Forget it.” She lowers slowly, her cheek mashed to his, her body stretching until he’s deep inside. But even as they begin to rock together, he knows that with every passing day, he’s closer to telling her the truth.

He just wishes he could know if the truth will make things better or worse.

 

V.  
The knock at the door startles him. 

“It’s me,” Clarke calls.

Putting down his book, Bellamy checks the clock and frowns. Opening the door, he finds her in jeans and a t-shirt, hands clasped in front of her and shifting from foot to foot. Her hair is still damp, like she just stepped out of the shower.

“Hey,” he leans against the door frame. “Don’t you have a date to be at?”

“I did. I canceled.”

“Okay…” Confused, his mind is working a mile a minute trying to figure out her expression. “Then you’re here because…”

“I don’t have an excuse this time,” Clarke blurts out loudly.

He stares. “Sorry?”

“I don’t have an excuse. I didn’t accidentally text you, nobody pissed me off, I’m not lonely— I was getting ready for my date and I realized I didn’t even want to go on it unless you were there.” Clarke pauses for breath while he gapes stupidly, unable to believe his own ears. Stepping closer, she says softly, “I want you, Bellamy.”

His astonishment lasts two seconds before being replaced by pure delight. Bellamy pulls her into his arms, planting his mouth on hers with zero hesitation. Clarke kisses him back, her relief apparent in the way she sinks into his embrace.

“Thank god,” he says between kisses. “Do you know how exhausting this has been?”

She laughs, giddy. “That’s your response? That I’m exhausting?” Her back hits the door as she returns his kisses just as fiercely, delaying his answer.

“I didn’t say _you_ were,” he mumbles against her cheek. “But this… this was torture. It was like everything in the world was out to remind me of you. Everywhere I went, I saw things you liked, things you'd told me about, heard that stupid song you like so much—”

“Which one?” She interrupts.

He kisses her nose. “The one by that astronaut band.”

Clarke looks puzzled for a long moment, but in between raising her hands to remove her shirt and undoing his belt buckle, she figures it out. “Walk the Moon?” She laughs. “God, how do you not know the name of that song? They repeat it like 20 times.”

“Shut up and dance with me,” Bellamy grins and hoists her into his arms, teeth flicking at her bra strap as she wraps herself around him.

“Loser,” she sighs.

“Too late. I know you love me.” He lays her gently on the bed, nuzzling her cheek.

“Yeah—well… you love me,” she shoots back lamely.

Bellamy laughs and kisses her. “I think you’re the last person in the world to figure that one out.”

Clarke grins and winds her arms over his shoulders, sighing when he presses her down into the mattress. It’s like they both suddenly realize the other isn’t going anywhere, and everything slows. What was always a rush of adrenaline and desperate need turns into playful nips and leisurely touches.

He finally lets himself kiss her the way he’s been longing to—deliberate and loving. Like she’s the only one he wants to be kissing. Because she is. Now, and always.

When Clarke’s grip slackens and her kisses become distracted, Bellamy pulls back.

“Hey.” He noses at her cheek. “Where’d you go?”

Clarke smiles and hugs him with a happy sigh. “Nowhere. Just thinking that I’m definitely in love with you.”

His whole body melts against hers. She rakes her fingers through his hair as he lays his head on her shoulder. “Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind if you feel the need to keep saying that,” he murmurs.

She laughs and whispers the words into his ear, against his forehead, along his cheek, until he kisses her again, all-consuming.

“You never kissed like that before,” she says, mouth against his jaw.

“I didn’t think you wanted that,” he replies. “It was always—it always felt like there was a ticking clock, you know?”

“What, like I’d become a pumpkin at midnight?”

Bellamy chuckles. “That’s not the fairytale at all, you know. But—yeah. Something like that. I wasn’t sure if you wanted anything more, and I was too chickenshit to bring it up myself and ruin what we do have.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll understand.

Clarke cradles his cheek with a smile. “Well, now there’s no clock. So you’ll have to deal, because I’m in love with you and I want you to kiss me and touch me all the time. In fact I’m probably going to insist on it,” she says impishly, and he feels his heart skip several beats. “And I’m basically not going to leave your bed, like ever,” she adds.

“Not even for shower sex?” He teases. “‘Cause I really want to try that.”

“Fine. Only for the shower. Or the wall,” she adds belatedly. “And maybe the kitchen counter.”

Something that’s half sigh, half laugh, and all joy tumbles from his lips. “I really fucking love you,” he tells her.

Clarke smiles and pulls his head down for another kiss. Their fingers lace together by her head as he settles his weight over her, marvels at the fit of their bodies and the way her hips cradle him so welcomingly.

“Bellamy,” she sighs, and he lifts his head to smile at her.

“I’m going to leave a ton of hickeys,” he says, unapologetic.

“Such a loser,” she reiterates, but he remembers all the marks she left behind the last time and knows this won’t be one-sided. So he sets about doing just that, first by her ear and then along her neck while she just tangles her hands in his hair and sinks further into the pillow with a contented sigh.

While he’s dragging his tongue along her ribs, she says, “Wait. You said everyone knew?” When he answers yes against her skin, she shivers. “Even Raven?”

“She was the first one to figure it out,” he admits,

“Then why didn’t she say anything?”

Bellamy chuckles, resting his chin on her stomach and looking up. “Because I threatened to spill her dirty secrets to Wick otherwise.”

“You don’t know her dirty secrets,” Clarke points out.

“I can imagine.” He rises to kiss her again. “She’s at the end of her rope, though. Last week she told me I had ‘til the end of the month before she butted in. Pretty sure she and O have a bet going too.”

“Oh god.” Clarke pushes at his shoulder, rolling them over so she can settle over him. “You know what you should do,” she says between bites to his chest, “pretend like you want in on it, and then we can time it so that you ‘win’ and split the money.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or turned on that you’re thinking so hard right now.” 

Mostly turned on, because this is Clarke after all. Grinning, Bellamy sits up and unclasps her bra, closing his mouth over her breast and humming agreeably when she arches in his lap, greedily clutching at his hair. As he shifts, settling her more firmly above him, she whines and bites down on his shoulder.

“Bell,” she sighs. He twists them so that she’s on her back again, and they get rid of the rest of their clothes in a hurry. Clarke urges him between her legs, sweeping her hands along his back and closing her eyes as he fits into the crook of her body.

Bellamy says her name just once, a cracked whisper, and when Clarke forces her eyes open again they’re full of love. She smiles and leans up to nip at the crease in his chin, and then at his bottom lip, and then he’s kissing her long and deep as their bodies join. Her walls stretch to welcome him with ease, the full weight of him making her sigh into his mouth. Attempting restraint, Bellamy slows his pace—only for Clarke to roll her hips with a purposeful grin, making him shudder and sink inside her with one full thrust, biting her lip in the process.

Bellamy rises to his elbows as Clarke clings to him, drawing out almost all the way before snapping his hips back against hers. Her eyes squeeze shut, his name falling from her mouth as her back arches. He grins.

“Stop smirking,” she breathes, hitching her legs up higher around his waist.

He laughs and just snaps his hips again, catching her moan with a dizzying kiss. After that she just curls her arms around him and holds on, meeting him thrust for thrust. Bellamy doesn’t register that Clarke’s actually _talking_ to him at first, but then he hears her going on about the bed hitting the wall and making sure everyone knows it’s her there with him, and fuck if his chest doesn’t puff out.

“Trust me, everyone’s going to know,” he says roughly against her ear, and her eyes shoot open in surprise. Bellamy grins, slowing his thrusts until she’s gripping his biceps with shaky breaths. “You think out loud, princess.”

“Fuck you,” she mutters, but he just chuckles and pulls her left leg higher, making her gasp with his next thrust.

“Already doing that,” he replies, and it’s her turn to laugh adoringly at him.

The new angle ensures that both of them lose any ability to speak after that, and soon Clarke has her face pressed to his shoulder, her cunt throbbing around his cock as he drives deep. She squeezes her legs tight around him, unable to stop the sounds leaving her mouth as she comes. It breaks the rest of Bellamy’s control and he soon follows with a few hard thrusts, mouth open against her neck.

Lazily, she cards her fingers through his hair, scraping her nails along his neck and grinning when he twitches. He moves a minute later, kissing away her protest and pulling her up with him, continuing to kiss her softly even as they clean up.

Clarke is quick to find his shirt and get back under the covers, arching an eyebrow when he just stands there with a stupid grin stretching across his face.

“What?” She quips. “I was serious about not leaving this bed.”

Still grinning hugely, Bellamy slides back in next to her, curling an arm around her shoulders and letting out his own small sigh when she hooks her leg around his. He lifts his hand to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her lips until she kisses the pad of his fingertip.

“What is it?" She asks.

"I want to know what you're thinking."

Clarke wraps her arms around him, smiling contentedly. “It's just nice not to be wondering if it’s the last time I get to do this.”

Bellamy’s grip tightens as he tilts her chin up for a kiss. “Not even close,” he promises.

She beams and snuggles into his side like she’s never going to move. He can absolutely get used to that.


End file.
